Loving Again

chapter Ten


While Sam was doing all he could to figure out who had murdered two people, Amanda was paralyzed by anxiety. Her conscience told her she should tell Sam about the letters left when her studio was ransacked — but that was exactly what the note said would put Sam in danger. She couldn’t have that. So, she ignored the voice and tried to work it out by herself.

In the end all she could do was a little office business and a bit of work on her propane torch. Moving stringers through the flame and watching drops of molten glass fall onto the table in perfectly rounded pieces was soothing. Or inhaling propane fumes was. She wasn’t sure which and didn’t really care, as long as it worked.

Then Felicia called and said the Resource Center had been cleared to reopen. Amanda shut off her torch, shook off her torpor, went to Bullseye and dropped a small fortune on sheet glass, hopeful that having supplies to get back to work with would get her out of her slump.

When Danny Hartmann arrived at her studio, she was unpacking and storing her precious cargo. They had an awkward conversation. Amanda tried to explain why she omitted — her word — her presence at Bullseye that night, saying she didn’t think she’d seen anything worth reporting.

From the number of times and the variety of ways the question was asked about why she lied — Hartmann’s word — Amanda knew Sam’s partner didn’t believe her. She tried to explain how frightened she was because of the similarities between what had happened last year and this latest horrible event, but she didn’t think Hartmann was convinced.

Amanda didn’t have the nerve to ask — or maybe didn’t want to find out — if Sam knew she’d been there.

After Hartmann left, Amanda considered going home and hiding herself under the quilt on her bed. Instead, she buried herself in work, her lethargy gone with the need to clear her mind of what happened. She finished storing her purchases, cleaned out kilns, scraped shelves and painted them with kiln-wash so she could fire glass on them, and readied the bins of ruined work for trash pickup. It was long after dark when she finished her tasks, but for the first time in days she felt like she’d gotten real work done.

As soon as she had the last trashcan out on the sidewalk, she locked up the back door, shut off the lights in her work area, and walked toward the front of the studio. The only illumination came from the three glory holes. Normally she found the glow of the molten glass comforting. But tonight, something was off.

Mid-studio, she stopped and looked around, trying to figure it out. Everything looked normal. Nothing was out of place.

Wait. That sound. Was it wind against the metal building? No. There wasn’t any wind. A neighbor putting out trash? The sound hadn’t come from the direction of the street.

When it happened again, she recognized what it was — the metal door near her worktables being carefully rattled, as if someone were trying to see if it was open.

“Who’s there?” she called.

There was no answer.

She tried again. “Who’s at the back door?”

Still nothing.

Her cell phone rang. She jumped, then rummaged to find it at the bottom of her purse. It was Sam.

“Where are you?” he said. “I’ve been trying to find you.”

“I’m just leaving the studio.”

“You didn’t answer when I knocked.”

“Is that you at the back door? Why didn’t you say so? You scared me when you didn’t answer.”

“It was a half hour ago, and I knocked at the front.”

She heard the sound again. “Somebody’s rattling the door. I better go.”

“Someone’s banging on your back door? Can you see who it is?”

“There aren’t any windows in the back.”

“And whoever it is didn’t respond when you asked?”

“No.”

“Where are you parked?”

“About four blocks away.”

“That’s too far. Don’t hang up. I’ll call for a patrol car. Wait for them, then go to your car and lock yourself in. Let the officers look around. Understand?”

“I can take care of calling the police.”

“For chrissake, Amanda, just do as I say … ”

She heard the sound of the phone receiver being dropped. Heard the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to the dispatcher on his cell phone. Heard the continued rattling of the back door. Standing in a deeply shadowed space between two kilns, she took a long, slow breath to calm her heart rate. Then she sidled toward the front door. She unlocked it, pulled her keys out of her purse, ready to run to her car when he got back on the phone. If he ever got back on the phone.

“Amanda?”

Finally. “What took you so long? You have me really scared,” she whispered.

“A couple patrol cars are on the way. They won’t run sirens but at least one of them will have lights flashing so you can identify them. I’ll stay on the phone until you see them.”

A crash, the sound of metal being smashed, came from the back of the studio. “I can’t wait for them. The back door was just broken open.”

“Get the hell out of there and run to your car.”

She flung open the door and sprinted into the dark as fast as she could. She punched the remote for her car but in her panic, accidently pushed the emergency button. The lights on her Highlander flashed and the horn blew, raising her anxiety.

However, the officer in the patrol car who pulled up alongside her SUV a few seconds later told her how smart she was to identify her vehicle that way. Amanda didn’t bother to correct the officer’s impression of her intelligence. When she was safely inside the patrol car she got back on the phone with Sam.

“The patrol car’s here, Sam. I’m with Officer … ”

“Jefferson,” the man said. “Officer Lopez is on his way. Is that Detective Richardson?” He put his hand out for the phone.

Amanda gave it to him. There wasn’t much to hear from his end of the conversation other than the occasional, “uh-huh.” When the conversation was finished, Jefferson handed the phone back to her. “How about we go see what’s going on and lock up your studio? Lopez should be there. After we get that taken care of, one of us will follow you home. Detective Richardson will meet us there.”

Back in the studio, they found a dented door and a broken lock. The office had been quickly searched, if the papers and boxes all over the floor and the open drawers and cabinets were any indication. Nothing in the studio itself was disturbed and nothing appeared to be missing.

With the officers’ help, she jury-rigged the door shut. They barricaded the back with the desk and a worktable before locking up the front door. As requested, Officer Jefferson followed Amanda home where Sam was waiting.

After he talked to the officer, Sam joined Amanda inside. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’ve had better days.” She motioned to him to take off his jacket.

He hesitated before removing it and handing it to her saying, “Yeah, me, too.” He looked weary, all of his thirty-six years evident in the lines in his face, which were deeper than usual. “Jefferson says nothing was missing. That true?”

“Sam, I … ”

“Is that true?” he repeated.

She didn’t answer for a bit, trying to read his expression. Finally she said, “Nothing seems to be missing, even the petty cashbox was intact. It may be time to move the studio — three break-ins in less than a month. That’s some kind of record.”

He didn’t comment. She looked down at the floor, unable to face him. “Sam, I have to tell you something.”

Turning away, he started for the door. “I know what you have to tell me, but I’m not sure I want to have this conversation tonight.”

“You don’t think I … ?” She couldn’t even say the words.

“Killed Robin Jordan and Eubie Kane? Of course I don’t. But you lied about being there. If you don’t believe it’s stupid to lie to the police, I’d have thought you trusted me enough not to lie to me.”

The word “lie” hit her like a fist each time he said it. “I can explain. Please. Sit down for a minute. Just listen.”

He followed her into the living room and sat facing her on the opposite couch, his face stony. “I’m listening.”

“Of course I should have told you — told the police — I was there. But I felt trapped. Eubie Kane was on a rant about me. Leo’s gun with my fingerprints on it killed him. I was only three blocks away. Motive, means, opportunity. It’s like location, location, location.” She looked up at him, but he didn’t seem amused at her attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

“I couldn’t say I’d been there. I knew what it looked like and I knew what you — what the police — would think. I would be presenting them with a neat little package that wrapped up their case. Just like last year. It was all back again. I couldn’t be involved again, not when I hadn’t done anything. So, I didn’t tell anyone, figuring you’d find out who did it and I wouldn’t have to. I should have known better but I was scared.”

“Why were you there, Amanda?”

She moved a pillow from behind her and clutched it to her chest before she answered. “I’d agreed to meet him at my studio but I finished up earlier than I expected. I, uh, decided to go see him. He’d said he would be at Bullseye. I figured he was taking a class; that’s the only reason anyone’s there at night. And classes usually end by nine. I thought maybe I’d have a chance to snag him when it was over.” Her voice trailed off.

“Okay, you went to see him. Go on.”

“I got there and saw cars parked in the covered area near the front door so I thought my guess that he was in class was right. But when I got to the door, it was dark inside. No one answered when I knocked. I didn’t expect it to be open. It never is when there’s a class. But I banged hard enough that if someone was in there, they would have heard.”

“The man who saw you says you went south on Twenty-first.”

“Toward the factory, yeah. I knocked on the door to the office. No one answered. So I went around the block to see if I could find anyone. When I couldn’t, I got in my car and came home.”

“That took you ten minutes?”

“I have no idea how long it took me. I wasn’t exactly timing myself.”

“You didn’t see anyone who can verify what you’re saying?”

She broke eye contact with him and plucked at the corner of the pillow she was holding. “No one will verify it.”

“Why’d you call Kane later?”

“To tell him I wouldn’t be at the studio if he showed up.”

“Why? You knew he wasn’t at Bullseye like he said he’d be.”

“I thought maybe he was in-between and I’d just missed him. It was raining so hard I could have driven right past him and not noticed. Anyway, I got no answer.”

“And that’s all?” He got up and walked over to her, tipped her chin up with his forefinger so she was looking at him. “Are you sure?”

She pulled her face away.

He watched her for a moment before rubbing his hand across his face. “It feels like you haven’t told me the whole story. Like you don’t trust me.”

“I do trust Sam Richardson, the man I … the man I’m involved with. But I’m not sure I feel the same about Detective Richardson, the one who’d have to tell his partner what I said. But I swear to you, I didn’t do anything wrong at Bullseye that night.”

“Well, both Sam Richardson and Detective Richardson are happy to hear that, Amanda.” He shook his head. “But, for future reference, it’s a package deal. I can’t be split in two.” He went to the hall, grabbed his jacket, and went out the front door.

She sat on the couch, her head back, unable to move. When her phone indicated an incoming text message, it startled her. She pulled it from her pocket, looking to see if it was Sam apologizing for walking out.

It wasn’t. She stared at the message, rereading it again and again. Chihuly jumped up on the couch beside her, licked her face and whined a little, demanding attention. Absentmindedly she gave him a pat or two. “I can’t let anything happen to him, can I, boy? Not after what he’s done for me.” She stood up and walked her dog to the kitchen door. “I have what this guy wants. I’ll just give it to him.”

• • •

Sam pounded on the steering wheel of his truck as he waited for the light to change. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or frustrated, or both. Every cop instinct he had said she wasn’t telling him the truth. But he had no idea what she was lying about. Nor did he know where to start to find out.

When he got home, he tried calling her, to apologize for the way he left but he got voice mail. She wasn’t picking up, apparently didn’t want to talk to him. He left a message saying he was sorry and would apologize in person when they had dinner the following night.

But apologizing was only part of why he wanted to talk to her again. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. Fast. He had a bad feeling about this. A feeling she was in danger.